


Just like all the normal kids.

by chrundletheokay



Category: Mythic Quest: Raven's Banquet (TV)
Genre: Gen, Substance Abuse, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, also i love that i fact checked ''the white knight'' but not pootie shoe's real name, i came up with this title in like five seconds don't judge titles are hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23044384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrundletheokay/pseuds/chrundletheokay
Summary: Ian tries again with his son. He's determined not to screw it up this time, so he asks for a little advice.
Relationships: Ian Grimm & Poppy
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Just like all the normal kids.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly didn't even mean to write a fic, but I spiraled out of control after writing the following shitpost on my tumblr (@chrundletheokay):
> 
> ian trying to bond with his estranged 14-year-old son like [offers him a $1 bill] “so have u lost all ur baby teeth yet?”
> 
> “i’m fourteen!”
> 
> “right, right.” [puts away wallet] “so have u gotten laid yet?”
> 
> “i’m fourteen!!!”
> 
> .
> 
> TW: substance abuse, underage drinking / drug use
> 
> .

Ian tries again a year later. He’s determined not to screw it up this time. He’s really gonna figure out this whole child development thing. So the kid has all his grown-up teeth; that much is certain. But what else?

He calls Poppy into his office one day, sits her down, and stares off into space for a while as he gets his thoughts in order.

It looks serious, Poppy reflects. It looks like bad news — like someone is dying, or someone is getting fired. If Ian didn’t consider himself immortal, she’d worry the former was him; and if Poppy didn’t consider herself the best in her field, she’d fear the latter was her.

Finally, Ian seems to drift back to reality. “Poppy,” he says, at last. “Fifteen-year olds… What are they like?”

She pauses, tilts her head to one side. “Is this a market research thing?” She’s all prepared to rattle off the results from their latest surveys, sales figures, hot gossip from that eerily happy woman in the basement—

“No no,” Ian cuts in. “Like. Normal kids. What are they like.”

“What are they _like,”_ Poppy repeats.

“Yeah. You remember being fifteen, right?"

“Um. _Yeah?”_

“What were the other kids like? The normal ones. The _not-_ Poppy ones.”

“Oh, screw you!” Poppy gets up, ready to storm out. She’s sure this is Ian’s round-about way of insulting her, although she can’t place how being fifteen pertains to any of their recent arguments.

“No, no, I’m serious,” he says hastily. It sounds earnest, almost desperate. It doesn’t sound like it’s meant to be insulting or condescending, even if — as ever — it came across that way. “I wanna get it right this time. Like, I know he lost all his baby teeth, and I know what he’s like on—I’ve watched all his videos, but that’s not… It’s not really real, is it? It’s not the same.”

“Oh.” Poppy sinks back into the chair across from his desk. “He lost all his baby teeth?” There’s got to be more to that story. Like, how did he lose them? It must have been gnarly and bloody, if it’s worth mentioning.

“Yeah,” Ian answers distractedly. “Apparently. I’m not sure when that happened, but, uh, apparently he’s old enough for that.”

Perhaps not. Perhaps Ian is simply an idiot. “Well, no shit.”

Ian frowns.

“Okay,” Poppy announces, “For starters, I think you should stop asking yourself what normal kids are like. Because, clearly, any kid of yours is gonna be _far_ from normal.”

Ian grins wryly, a brief moment of unwarranted pride shining through. “That’s true,” he agrees.

“That was an insult, but we’ll just move past it. What were _you_ like when you were fifteen?”

He hums. “Don’t really remember,” he answers, low and thoughtful.

“You don’t _remember?”_

He gazes off into the distance. “I was… kinda high.”

“You were high,” Poppy echoes.

Ian nods. “Yeah…”

“When you were fifteen. The whole year, you were high.”

“High school in general, really. But that’s not helpful! I mean, he’s probably already stealing his mom’s Vicodin, so that’s a non-starter. Like, I probably shouldn’t—”

_“Don’t_ give the kid drugs; no.”

“No, obviously not.” Ian scratches at his beard and hums contemplatively. “Maybe I could buy him a nice bottle of scotch…”

“Absolutely not.”

“A light beer? I mean, he’s too young to be worrying about calories, but—”

“He’s fifteen, Ian!”

“Right. You’re right. He’s probably got a fake ID already.”

“No, I’m saying he shouldn’t be drinking at all; he’s a child!”

“At fifteen? Are you kidding? I was drinking by, like, middle school, and I turned out fine. Great, even. I mean, look at me.”

Ian gestures around his dimly-lit office. A mockup of him as the White Knight, in limited edition armor, sits on an easel behind him. His shovel leans against the wall in one corner. Several mugs sit abandoned on his desk, half-full of old coffee. His hair is disheveled, sticking up at odd angles where he’s run his fingers through it and tugged on the strands. He’s gnawing on a thumbnail, bouncing one leg up and down so rapidly Poppy wants nothing more than to smack him.

Instead, she resolves to visit Carol in HR. This insane, demented man needs a therapist more than anyone Poppy has ever met. She’ll see to it that it happens, even if it means conducting a sit-in in Carol’s office until the woman agrees to stage an intervention, forcing Ian into therapy.

“Pops,” Ian says. “Hey, I think your hives are coming back. You know, I actually have a great herbalist. I can give you their name; they’ll clear that right up for you. See, what you wanna do is—”

“Buy him a hoodie,” Poppy snaps. “Buy him Axe body spray. What do I know about fifteen year old boys? _Don’t_ buy him drugs. _Don’t_ buy him booze. Give him a ton of MQ gear; I don’t give a shit! I’m not his mother, Ian. I’m not _your_ mother. I’m going to find you a therapist, goddamn you.”

“Wait, Poppy! Poppy come back,” Ian calls as she storms out of his office. She pointedly ignores him, but he keeps shouting after her, persistent as ever. “Do kids like therapists? Is the therapist for him? Should I get him a therapist? Poppy? Poppy!”


End file.
